On my first visit to the country, waiting
For the Ministry of the Interior
To return my passport—which had been confiscated
At Immigration—so that I could fly
Home, leaving the war zone for another day.
That music took me to another world.
Book club, which drew spies, soldiers, diplomats,
An archaeologist, a cook, and a nurse,
Featured an expert who examined what
Bin Laden’s death the week before might augur
For the inchoate Global War on Terror.
I could not sleep that night—or any other.
More than a dozen students practicing
In one small studio, examining
Their technique in the mirror—violinists
And trumpeters, bass players and bassoonists,
A flautist and a French horn player, all
Performing with a kind of manic joy.
When I joined others from the Embassy
At a reception for the Institute.
The diplomatic community was small
But lively at the midpoint of the war
Or occupation, however one defined it
That week. It seemed impossible to warm up.
That every instrument had been destroyed
Under the Taliban, and now the students
Would learn the standard repertoire of both
The western classical tradition (taught
By young musicians recruited from abroad)
And what might shape Afghanistan anew.
Again in Afghanistan, in violation
Of the Qur’an, Hadith, and traditional
Islamic practice. Zoroastrians
And Hindus, Buddhists and Muslims, all performed
Music as part of religious practice
Long before the Taliban arrived.
His ghazal on our drive from Rumi’s birthplace
In Balkh to Mazar-i-Sharif, translating
Lines challenging to rhyme with his refrain:
The history of yesterday is repeated again.
War after war, fought over land and clashing
Visions of God, then fashioned into song.
And state police careened around two lanes
Of cars and pickups idling on the bridge
And skidded through the crowded intersection,
Where a distracted driver was intent
On discovering the name of the violinist
Performing on the radio The Lark
When he was learning how to write blank verse,
With a recording of the piece on repeat
And rain his true companion, steadily
Tapping on the apartment’s leaded glass
Windows, through which he could not see what joy
And love and pain were bearing down on him.
Inspiring students to strip off their clothes
And dive into the lake below the school,
Where quaking aspen leaves shine in the wind
And horses gallop toward a burning forest,
Broken men and women join the dance
Beyond the water, regardless of their faith,
Position in society, or fear
Of ridicule. Dear Spring, these congregants
Will sing—the signal to count down from ten
Before a cottonwood bursts into flame
And one horse, whinnying, slows to a stop.
The time to start another war, despite
What pundits and the military say
About our near abroad—how difficult
It is to save the settlers from themselves;
How fragile are the bonds forged in imagined
Communities; how deep the currents run
In the river that divides our shrinking empire
Between our prodigal and favorite sons,
Who are conspiring with our enemies
To launch offensives in the borderlands,
Dooming another generation or two.
Bringing the neighborhood to heel, as a crowd
Drawn by the sirens, smoke, and flashing lights
Assembled by the bus stop in the square
To monitor the progress of the flames
And share what they surmised about their neighbors—
The resident in ophthalmology
Addicted to opioids, his fiancée
Who should have left him for the football coach,
And the boy toys they partied with the night
Before they were arrested for indecent
Behavior, and then someone torched their place.